Date: Wed, 24 May 2000 02:29:17 -0500
From: "Rich Limacher"
THE UNLIKELY ADVENTURE OF KITSCHME SIOUXME
AT THE SUPERIOR TRAIL 100
Part 25
"Have You Got Your Flashlight? Rain Gear?
Bail-Bond Card? Life Insurance Paid Up?"
"Just five hundred dollars
and they'll set us free.
I couldn't raise a penny
if they threatened me.
I know five hundred
don't sound like much (cheap),
But just try to find
somebody to touch.
"So, here we are
in the Tijuana jail.
Ain't got no friends
to go our bail.
So, here we'll stay
'cause we can't pay.
Just send our mail
to the Tijuana jail."
--Denny Thompson
The Kingston Trio
(1959)
[Editor's note: This manuscript arrived this morning,
postmarked from Marion, Illinois, and apparently mailed at
the federal prison there. The author expressed concern
about being able to have done his time in time for the
upcoming Hardrock Hundred, although, as he put it, "I
probably busted a Thousand Hardrocks already."]
"Pair up in threes."
--Yogi Berra
"The Yogi Book: 'I Really Didn't
Say Everything I Said'"
(1998)
[Author's note: For this episode's audio-visual aid, point
your browser to the following web address:
http://www.shta.org/Photos/p154.htm
It's supposed to be a photo of Oberg Mountain, but it won't
help you. First of all, it isn't clear whether the bump
("peak") in the foreground is Oberg Mountain, or whether the
true Mountain mound ("bump") is in the background.
Secondly, this doesn't help me either. I never saw it. By
the time I arrived here, it was pitch dark, pouring rain,
and, baby, I wasn't seein' a damned thing!]
A little farther on... (excuse me) A little darker on... I
squint... and I see an aid station nestled amongst the
trees.
[Actually, that's a lie. It was not even close to being "a
little farther on." It was A LOT farther on. It seemed
like forever!!!]
(The reader, as well as the runner, should realize here
that, just because the sign halfway up Carlton Peak pointed
"THATAWAY" for all the 50-milers to get off the trail and
go, yes, that-a-way; well, it doesn't mean that YOU have
run 50 miles. You have probably only run about 48 miles,
leaving a two-mile "side trail" out to the side down off the
side of Carlton Peak with a long sideways to go to this side
of that parking lot on that side of this forest someplace,
where all this imagined "whole lotta shakin'" would be goin'
on in side your head. But no. There'll be none of THAT
now. This trip, from here on out, is definitely on the side
of suffering.)
I see by the literature they let me keep in my cell that the
Tofte/Sawbill (a.k.a. Britton Peak) aid station is 50.9
miles into the race. And Oberg Mountain, the aid station
after that, is 56.6 miles into the race. Of course, none of
this really matters. I never saw anything. I'd been
brain-dead since that highway sign, indicating Grand Marais
was just 44 miles away. And that was, what, 20 miles ago?
Anyway, to make a long, tedious, encyclopaedic epic work of
literature a tad less Britannical--by at least one or
two words--I should tell you that, yes, I finally do arrive
at the Tofte/Sawbill aid station, and the first things those
sweet volunteers ask me are:
"Have you got your flashlight?"
"Yes, ma'am." (Glug, glug. I'm guzzling Gatorade.)
"Have you got rain gear?"
"Yes, ma'am." (Glug, glug. I reach down to feel if my
jacket and long-sleeve T are still cinched to my
double-holster Roy Rogers cap pistol belt. They are. Glug,
glug.)
"Do you have a bail-bond card?"
"No, ma'am. Do I need one?" (I stop glugging and instead
hand her both my empty water bottles.)
"You're going to be out after curfew."
"Yes, ma'am."
"Does your mother know this?"
"No, ma'am. And please don't tell her, okay?"
"Is your life insurance all paid up?"
"I dunno, ma'am." (Glug, glug. I pick up where I left
off.)
"Well, then, Tom here would like to talk to you. He's with
'the good hands people.'"
"I can see that. Nice cuticles, Tom. And thanks, but no
thanks. The wife has the policy." (Glug, glug. Chomp,
chomp. Hmmm, not bad PB&Js.)
"But is it paid up?"
I stop glugging and chomping.
"Here's the deal, Tom. She has no reason to fake my death
or hope I croak. The policy wouldn't even pay her enough to
ship the body home."
"And," I continue, "I would love to keep chatting with you,
Tom, and maybe even review term or whole-life products with
you and compare your actuarial percentages with my easily
affordable monthly premiums, but hey..." (they hand back my
refilled bottles) "...I GOTTA GO!!!"
And, with that, I'm gone.
This is, after all, an "unlikely" adventure.
The thing about running at night is, it gets dark. And,
conversely, the thing about running in the rain is, it gets
wet. And the first thing that happens almost immediately
after I leave this aid station is, both of those things
happen.
I decide I'd better, finally, reche into my pouche and
pulleu auxt my Petzl. After aux, I'm on my way to Leveaux,
wheech eez (I see by what they let me keep in my cell)
another "mountain." I quickly switch the brim on my cap
from front to back, then fumble with my zipper seaux to
reche in and pulleu aut my....
...you know!
And now with my beaming lamp on my cap and my thinking cap
on my head, I focus on down the trail and watch it, in the
pouring rain, turn immediately...
...to MUD!!!
Funny thing about mud. It is soggy. It is slippery. It is
relatively not very clean. And you would just be amazed how
it alters your footing for the worse.
Funny thing about the Superior Hiking Trail. It is long.
It is dirty. It is not very handicap-accessible. And you
would not believe how its HILLS can alter your footing for
the worse.
Funny thing about me. I am running. (That's pretty funny
all by itself.) I am slick. The soles of my shoes are even
slicker. And you would be amazed how simple a task it
is to slip and fall on your ass backwards and slide thirty
meters down the very same hill you're hiking on, only to be
deposited without ceremony upside-down in a clump of fallen
pine trees off to the side of the trail.
And that, I swear--as the IRS is my judge--is precisely what
happens to me now.
Sliiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiip.
"Whoooooooooooooooa!!!"
Flop.
Frump.
Sliiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiide.
Stop.
Dump.
I'm literally upside-down, with my ass off the ground, with
my chin on my knees, and my body in the trees.
My backwards-facing hat is frontwards again.
My lovely Petzl is poking out. (Some sixteen inches outside
my shorts.)
My glasses are gone.
My singlet is ripped.
My face full of dirt.
And my ass is caked with mud.
If this were happening to you, instead of to me, right about
now I'd be busting a gut. Rolling off the aisle. Laughing
my cake off.
I lie there. I'm upside-down. I can't move. I'm a turtle
on its back, helpless. Imprisoned in my own little hell.
And I'm starting to wonder all over again if that life
insurance was ever, in fact, paid at all.
Well? Should I scream?
(There's no one to hear me.)
Should I laugh?
(Aw, I think, save it. I'll need to remember this to write
about it later. And THEN I can laugh my cake off.)
[Author's note: Somehow, landing in prison for bad taxes
takes all the humor out of being be pine briars for a
mis-trail.]
Maybe I should cry instead?
(Naw. Who'd know? It's pouring rain! Who could tell
they're tears?)
Well, of course, this is where everything just shuts down
and my race could well be over. Except, of course, for two
small details which I think about as I try to think about
what to do next: 1) I don't want some horny moose to find
my Petzl and eat me; and 2) I don't want my wife to have the
last laugh.
So, I decide to do a backward somersault and...
...that's what saves me.
My feet come crashing down through the briars and brambles
and the needles and branches--almost to the ground--but they
can't quite reach it because I'm still on a hill and there's
a
lot of fallen trees under me. But at least I'm
rightside-up.
>From my new vantage point, I can see how far my Petzl was
out from my body and, with great care and tender groping, I
can finally feel the bulb end, pull it back, and align it
safely by my fly. From there I can lower my head, extend my
tongue, and...
...spit out all the pine needles.
Then, armed with my newly realigned light, I quickly locate
all the rest of my missing parts, reassemble everything,
climb back up the fallen branches to be level with the trail
once again, and plant both feet firmly back down on the mud.
And then--hmmm, was I going up this hill or down it when I
fell?--I take off trudging again. Trudging very, very
carefully. This "spill" has probably cost me half an hour
already. I really can't afford to flail along with reckless
abandon any more.
So, of course, when it levels out again, I take off running.
After a short while, off in the distance I see a light.
Hmmm, I think. Oberg Mountain already??? Then, I think,
can't be. And, of course, it isn't.
Upon drawing closer, I see that it's not one, but THREE
lights! Drawing closer yet, I see that these lights are
mounted on three people!
Whoa! What's this? Not possible!!!
"Hi folks!" I say. "Are you in this race too?"
"Sure are!"
"Well, I think you're going the wrong way!"
"Nope. Don't think so!"
"You must be! I've been going straight ever since Carlton
Mountain. Did you miss the turn-off? Are you all doing the
fifty?"
"Nope!"
"Then you must've gotten turned around somewhere?"
"No, I think we're headed in the right direction."
"You do?"
"Yeah."
"You sure?"
"Yeah."
"Well, uh, gosh. Maybe... uh, could I follow along with you
then... uh, till at least maybe we see where we all got
turned around?"
"OK. Fall in!"
I turn around and follow. At this point, I'm not quite sure
who's right here, but I also don't want to be all alone for
at least a little while--in case I become an upside-down
turtle again. Besides, at this point in the race, I tell
myself I need to be assured that I'm not the only last
person in the race. Because then I really could become
moose lunch!
"My name's Kitsch, by the way," I say.
"I'm Hardrock. He's Coco."
"I'm Jo."
No.
You have GOT to be kidding me!!! Those were cartoons!!!!!
As I say, this is not a very likely adventure, is it? And
so the four of us "pair up" and run together all the way
to the parking lot-with-aid-station at Oberg Mountain. It
keeps raining the whole time. The trail is getting muddier
and muddier. And NOBODY is laughing even after when we get
there.
And wouldn't you know? This is "Pacer Central."
Right away here, comin' to greet me with a huge smile and an
even bigger "hi," is Hihowarthya. And, right behind her,
dressed like a sailor aboard an icebreaker, is her number
one brave, Heap Big Chef Hatchetman.
These people are a blinding sight even for St. Paul's eyes.
And, I think, I'm witnessing a miracle.
And what are the very first things she says to me?
"Do you have another flashlight?"
"Where is your rain gear?"
"Are you carrying a bail-bond card?"
"Is your life insurance all paid up?"
Welllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllll...
How did SHE know about our hero's wife's miserably cheap
short-term policy?
What do THESE PEOPLE know that our hero doesn't about
the legal thorns and entanglements that lurk during the
trial ahead?
Or, rather (did we say "trial"?) during the extremely
muddy TRAIL ahead?
And finally, sports fans, what DO moose eat anyway?
Pretzels?
Oh, you won't want to miss THIS next exciting episode!
It's the volume of this encyclopaedia that dares to ask:
"Why does weather travel mainly from west to east when the
direction of the revolving planet is also mainly from west
to east?"
And...
"If you're traveling in a camper from south to north, do you
suppose you could give me a ride?"
The answers to these and all other unanswered cosmic
questions shall soon be gleefully mailed from Marion,
disguised as "Part 26."
Kitsch Limacher
TheTroubadour@prodigy.net